Chapter 97
The drive to Parliament began in an oppressive silence that seemed to hang heavier than the fur coats of those present in the car. The Prime Minister’s opulent automobile, a black, lacquered beast with crests on its doors, pulled smoothly away, but even its reinforced suspension could not entirely conceal the fact that the capital was gradually losing its battle against the elements.
Ardi was sitting opposite General Zakrovsky, trying not to meet his gaze, and looking out the window instead. Despite the rattling heating tubes, frost still crept across the edges of the glass in patterns resembling ferns. Beyond the window, a scene unfolded that was worthy of the brush of a mad painter who had decided to capture the end of the world. He had also, for some reason, chosen to only use watercolors in shades of white.
The city was drowning.
This was not the soft New Year’s snowfall that crinkles pleasantly underfoot and looks delightful in greeting cards. No, the capital had been engulfed by a white abyss that had descended upon the Metropolis straight from low skies that were threatening to crack at any moment.
The blizzard howled like a wounded wolf, hurling itself at the walls of buildings and at the rare passersby. People in heavy sheepskin coats, wrapped in scarves up to their eyes, desperately waved wooden shovels around, casting snow off the roadways, but the drifts grew faster than they could be cleared.
Along the sidewalks, the snowy parapets had already become as tall as people, turning the streets into deep trenches. The gas and Ley-lanterns, which, for some reason, hadn’t been extinguished even during the day, were little more than dull yellow smears barely piercing the milky murk. It seemed as though the Queen of Winter and Darkness herself had rebelled against the Empire’s technological progress, attempting to bury it beneath a crushing layer of ice.
Inside the automobile, however, there was still warmth; the air smelled of expensive leather and the Prime Minister’s pipe tobacco, but Ardan was shivering. And not because of the weather. His thoughts, like a worn-out record, kept returning to the Crown Hotel and the roof. To that Tazidahian mutant.
Why?—this question pulsed and pulsed in Ardan’s temples. The equation did not add up. Were the Brotherhood and the Puppeteers allies? Or, as the Colonel had aptly put it, “was one using the other?” No, allies shared information, they didn’t steal it. So, the Puppeteers had indeed been using the Tazidahians the same way they’d used their puppets in the Empire. Or they’d tried to use them...
Sooner or later, in any system (the more complex the system, the sooner the phenomenon occurs), errors would accumulate, leading to failure. That was why a traitor was inevitable. And the Black House was no exception to this.
Traitor.
Ardi tested the word on his tongue, mulling it over silently. It tasted bitter.
If the documents had been in the Brotherhood’s possession for seven years and the Puppeteers hadn’t received them in all that time, then the Tazidahians might not have just lacked the opportunity, but also the desire to hand them over. They’d held them back as a trump card. As insurance. Or as a leash.
The traitor must’ve been very motivated, the young man reasoned as the automobile slowly forced its way through a snowdrift at an intersection. What could have pushed a member of the Brotherhood, and especially a mutant—literally raised from childhood with the singular purpose of serving Tazidahian—to take such a step? Greed? Unlikely. The Brotherhood’s mutants had no need for money. Power? Possibly. The promise of some sort of advancement? But then who had made the offer?
Someone had found, in their arsenal, something capable of compelling the mutant not merely to betray the Puppeteers and his handlers in the Brotherhood, but also to risk his life... for what?
Or, worse still, the traitor had intended to sell these papers to a third party. But who were they? The Empire? Then he would have made contact with the Daggers. He was alone on the roof, Ardi reminded himself. He didn’t manage to hand over the papers. He hid them when he realized that someone was following him.
At the front, Captain Ponskih stirred. He was sitting beside the driver, separated by a partition, but Ardi could still feel his tension even through the upholstery. To Ardan’s left, straight as a pole, sat the mortal with the elven name. Captain Aloaeiol was staring directly ahead, her face hidden behind an impenetrable mask, but the fingers resting on her knees were tapping out a simple, barely-perceptible rhythm.
Opposite him, General Zakrovsky continued reading his book. It was as if he hadn’t noticed the storm beyond the window nor the heavy thoughts of his companion. His indifference was more frightening than any anger in some ways.
This was the indifference of a man who had already written Ardan off and now regarded him the way some looked at an annoying gnat.
Ardan didn’t mind. His self-esteem was still intact.
The automobile lurched. They were crossing the Tsar’s Bridge. The wind here was blowing with such force that the heavy vehicle noticeably swayed to one side. Below, beneath the ornate railings, the dark gap of the river’s ice-cut channel yawned, rimmed by jutting ice.
Ardan returned once more to his reflections.
To whom had the traitor intended to pass the documents? If not to the Puppeteers (otherwise, why all the secrecy and the theft from his own people?), then perhaps... That particular thought was derailed when he caught sight of the nondescript roof of Parliament reflected in the sullen sky.
“We’re here,” Captain Ponskih said tonelessly.
Ardi adjusted the collar of his coat. He was about to enter this building not as an investigator of the Second Chancery tracking a centuries-old conspiracy, but as a man who, the day before, had confessed to the most powerful official in the Empire that he cared more about his loved ones than the state.
And now, with that weight on his shoulders, he had to search for a bunch of mysterious documents in a hotel full of enemies. The door opened, and a whirlwind of snow burst into the car, instantly overpowering its cozy warmth. Ardan stepped into the blizzard, feeling the cold penetrate his clothing, and, curiously, its presence warmed the young man instead of chilling him.
“Ard, damn it all, could you try not to look so happy when it’s twenty-eight degrees below zero?” Aloaeiol sniffled, her eyes sometimes glinting orange in the sunlight.
She’d spoken in the tongue of the Fae. Ardi should have guessed the captain’s true nature several days ago. He himself had even told Klementiy and Parela that the Fae language, if one wasn’t a Listener or a Speaker, could not be “learned” in the usual sense of the word.
Quickening their pace, they crossed the cleared-but-already-drifting-over path from the road to the grand staircase, accompanied by the two captains. They climbed the stairs, held the door for the Prime Minister, and plunged into the buzzing, grumbling Parliament.
“My dear Beaver, remind me of today’s schedule,” the Prime Minister requested, looking as though he had arrived at a long-awaited fair being held to honor the Festival of Light.
Ardan was still intrigued and frightened by General Zakrovsky’s manner of communication. He truly seemed to be a living illustration of the northern elven proverb: “The sharpest dagger hides in the softest sheath.” Translated properly into Galessian, it would sound something like: “The quietest man in a noisy room is usually the most dangerous.”
“First, you have a meeting with the ambassador from Kargaam, General, and after that, a luncheon with the diplomatic missions. The closed economists’ forum will be discussed there,” Captain Ponskih recited, opening his notepad. “The forum is scheduled for four days from now, and will be held in the main conference hall of the Lower Chamber of Parliament.”
“Is my presence required there?”
“No, General,” the Senior Magister shook his head. “The forum will be moderated on our side by the Chief Treasurer, with the Finance Minister delivering the keynote address, after which, members of the diplomatic missions will present their reports, and, naturally, a lengthy round of deal-making will commence.”
“Excellent, and then?” Occasionally dispensing meaningless nods at officials scurrying past, the Prime Minister strode calmly up the marble staircase.
“In total, we have three main events, General. The economic forum. Then, three days later, a round table of ambassadors. And finally, as the conclusion, on the last day before their departure—a signing of treaties and a formal dinner at the Palace of the Kings of the Past, with a personal appearance by His Imperial Majesty. In the intervals, the diplomatic missions will be offered a chance to experience cultural programs of varying character.”
The Congress was an economic and political event, and since none of the five remaining monarchies on the planet possessed absolute power, the Emperor’s presence at the Congress would have been not so much inappropriate as simply unnecessary.
“And which ones do I need to attend?”
“Everything except the economic forum.”
“Excellent,” the Prime Minister nodded and, smiling at his secretaries and aides, entered his office and hung his fur coat on the stand. “Then make sure that all those who wish to discuss something with the Empire outside of, shall we say, standard procedure, know that my residence offers a certain historical value as an entertaining landmark.”
Captain Aloaeiol winked at Ardi and disappeared into the concealed room, and like before, three people were left in the actual office.
“Already done, General,” Captain Ponskih said, closing his notepad and returning it to his inner pocket, the chains of his grimoire clinking in the process. “Word has been sent through our channels to our foreign colleagues.”
“Have any takers made themselves known?”
Ponskih nodded.
“Selkado, Castilia and Urdavan.”
“Urdavan?” For the first time, Ardi saw a certain degree of surprise appear on the Prime Minister’s face. “What could the northerners possibly want from us?”
Ardan had to admit that he was also somewhat surprised. It wasn’t like he understood politics at this level or even the local continental economy (and its own politics), but if there were any two countries in the world that had almost nothing connecting them, it was the Empire and the Kingdom of Urdavan.
The two monarchies shared no trade routes, didn’t border each other, their ruling families had never intermarried, and they’d never clashed on the field of battle. In other words, Urdavan and the Empire existed in two separate worlds.
Because of the tensions between Urdavan, Grainia, the Principality of Scaidavin, and the island union of Lintelar-Olikzasia-Foria, this status quo could potentially be disrupted, but certainly not enough to alarm the Empire. Moreover, even the minuscule trade that occurred with the northern kingdom was expressed not in percentages, but in fractions of a percentage.
Of course, Captain Ponskih didn’t answer the rhetorical question, while the Prime Minister’s face quickly acquired a decidedly grim expression.
“So, the intelligence reports did have substance to them after all...”
“Yes, General.”
“Well then, we shall observe what sort of move they make... and in the meantime, Beaver, be so kind as to invite the ambassador of Kargaam to join us.”
“Yes, General,” the captain repeated and disappeared behind the door.
Ardan, who was currently standing on the very same spot as two days prior, was left alone with the arbiter of fates. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation.
“Corporal.”
Ardi flinched.
“Yes, Your Excellency?”
The General regarded him with a glassy gaze that was as cold as a dead fish.
“What exactly does the Colonel want at the hotel so badly that he requested your presence there, to the detriment of the original plan for reinforcing the Congress security detail?” His voice sounded as icy as the frost beyond the window.
No, the Prime Minister was not at all concerned for his own safety. It was simply that, despite retiring from running the Daggers division years ago, he evidently still considered himself something of a spiritual leader of that branch of the Black House. Ardi didn’t know what sort of relationship the Colonel and Duke-General Oleg Zakrovsky had, but it was unlikely to be an especially warm and friendly one.
The two men labored for the good of the Empire. That was a fact. But each of them did so in the way they thought was best. And the Colonel had ordered him and Milar not to share the information with anyone…
“Staying silent, then...” The Duke-General exhaled and smiled, broadly and pleasantly. He looked as though he was about to offer the weary young man a seat, a cup of hot cocoa, and a pillow for his feet. “I would hint to you, Corporal, about my ability to complicate your life, but alas, you enjoy the favor of the Imperial couple. Especially Her Imperial Highness. I’m afraid it would simply be too awkward for me to motivate you, shall we say, by using the stick. And as to what sort of carrot I might offer you—I confess, I’m at a loss.”
Ardan had no idea where the thread of this conversation was leading, so he simply remained silent. As he did so, he prayed to the Sleeping Spirits that Captain Ponskih would return as quickly as possible with the ambassador.
“On a purely human level, I respect you, Corporal. Just as I respected your father, though my dealings with him were brief after he carried the wounded Pavel out of the gunpowder smoke on his own back,” the Prime Minister explained for some reason. Sleeping Spirits! Men of this caliber never did anything for no reason! That much, at least, Ardan had learned all too well after nearly two years of living in the Metropolis. “And there is nothing frightening or dangerous about people who place personal interests—especially ones as vital as family and loved ones—above those of the state. Absolutely nothing at all... so long as those people have no connection whatsoever to the state as a mechanism.”
Ardan continued to be mute. He thought he understood where the Prime Minister was heading with this.
“So, for everyone’s benefit, including your own, Corporal, it would probably be best if...” The Prime Minister packed his pipe, struck a match, and drew in a long breath. “If the daughter of Reish Orman, after marrying a corporal, were to remain the wife of a corporal forever. A Magister at most. But certainly not a senior officer or, Eternal Angels forbid, a Senior Magister who would place the personal above the state. You understand what I’m saying?”
Ardan did. Perfectly.
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“Wonderful... Don’t take it personally, Corporal. It’s really nothing personal. Just the nature of the work.” The Duke-General exhaled a wisp of smoke and cast a brief glance out the window. “I’ll give you until the end of this day to change your mind. All you need to do is tell me about the Crown Hotel, and then I’ll understand that a worthy statesman still lives within you, and not only,” the Prime Minister looked at the ring on Ardi’s finger, “a husband. Alas... I already know you will remain silent. Just as your father would have. Which, in fact, he did... A pity. Such a pity... You would have made an exceptional Dagger.”
Ardan could see, before his very eyes, the Ley-poisoned, hungry wolves circling once more around the clearing’s edge. They were sniffing the air, baring their teeth, and trying to size up their prey. Only this time, they weren’t merely frightening, but also trying to lure him in.
The Prime Minister had made it clear that he knew more about Ardan’s father than he was saying. An unspoken bargain—information for information—all but hung in the air, but... in one respect, the Prime Minister had miscalculated.
Ardi didn’t care about ranks. Perhaps it was because of his forest friends, his Teacher, the she-wolf, perhaps it was because of Aror, Shaia, and even to some degree, Sheriff Kelly… but Ardi didn’t need anyone to recognize his achievements. If he knew that he had managed something, done something, accomplished something, that was enough.
The threats of being barred from climbing the military ranks or, at some point in the future, not receiving the medallion of a Senior Magister, didn’t frighten Ardan in the slightest.
He simply did not care.
And so, he continued adhering to his tactic of keeping his tongue behind his teeth. Fortunately, this maneuver didn’t last overly long. Within mere seconds, Captain Ponskih returned, walking ahead of a colorful delegation.
Ardan, who had long ago grown accustomed to the fact that among humans, other men might, at best, reach his chin with the tops of their heads—and these were usually the tallest among them—felt a certain relief at the sight of the newcomers. Yes, they were still shorter than him, but not to a startling degree.
Both of them, had they removed their somewhat peculiar leather shoes with unvarnished wooden heels, would probably have stood at the level of Ardi’s nose. Compared to the stocky Prime Minister and the unremarkable build of the Senior Magister, the Kargaam ambassador and his companion looked positively imposing.
“Your Excellency,” the ambassador greeted him in flawless Galessian, bowing as well.
His amber jewelry and earrings clinked. Sleeping Spirits! There were several piercings in each of the ambassador’s ears, adorned with very diverse and colorful ornaments, including some enormous cat. It was hard to even imagine how much effort the jeweler had invested into these pieces.
“Nahadka Kalih Tsotscodts,” replied General Zakrovsky, who, instead of offering a short bow of his own, ran his hand above his face. It looked as though he were removing a mask.
As far as Ardi knew, “nahadka” meant something akin to “mister” in the Kargaam tongue. And the mask-removing gesture came from an era when, in the cradle of the human race, ceaseless wars had raged between the tribes. The warriors of ancient settlements had worn wooden masks for the same reason that helmets had once been popular and soldiers now wore steel caps, which had subsequently given rise to the gesture. Removing one’s mask signaled that a person had peaceful intentions.
Regarding the appearance of the ambassador—aside from the wide, golden garments that simultaneously resembled a robe, a skirt, and something in between, nothing else particularly remarkable caught his eye. Ardan had already seen black agate skin that seemed to swallow the surrounding light, so it no longer captivated or astonished him, though it did stir a fleeting sense of curiosity.
But that was the ambassador. His companion, however... Remarkably, Kargaam hair turned white with age just as it did among Galessians. And their skin developed dark spots, and their back stooped slightly. Yes, the ambassador’s companion was an old man. He had red tattoos on his face and the backs of his hands, and perhaps his entire body as well, but the clothing made it impossible to tell for sure.
In his left hand, the old Kargaamian man was toying with some rather unusual prayer beads. Gems alternated with tree bark and the bones of animals and birds along these beads. And with his right hand, he was leaning on a short, thick staff that looked more like a club or a walking stick crafted by someone who wasn’t all that skillful…
Ardi suddenly realized that this was a Star Shaman!
“Your Excellency, would you permit my companion to make use of your very comfortable settee?” The ambassador’s voice had a slightly gurgling quality to it, as though he had recovered from a lung ailment recently. “His legs are not as strong as they once were.”
“Of course.” Smiling amiably, General Zakrovsky extended his hand toward the green settee that stood close to Captain Ponskih.
The Kargaamians exchanged several words in their clicking language, and the old shaman, leaning heavily on his walking stick, sat down beside the captain. Ponskih gave him a short, respectful nod and moved aside. According to the rules of the Congress, each ambassador and foreign minister had the right to travel with their own security so that everyone could stay safe.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, ambassador?” The Prime Minister asked. “I believe that we met not very long ago. Was it at Mr. Krinitsky’s reception at the start of winter?”
“Quite right.” Despite his vivid clothing and innumerable earrings, necklaces and rings, Mr. Tsotscodts conducted himself like a regular at an expensive cigar club. He had the same sort of manners, the same gestures, and even a similar intonation. This was hardly surprising given the fact that the Kargaamian ambassador had held his post for nearly twenty-five years. “The Minister of Foreign Affairs was most kind when he offered to renovate our embassy building at the expense of your Crown.”
“Yes, yes,” the Prime Minister nodded. “We had been expecting a harsh winter, and you, as I understand it, still have little else to warm yourselves with besides fireplaces and iron stoves. We thought to connect your building to our new heating network.”
“And we would have agreed, if we’d been certain,” the ambassador glanced, as if by chance, at the captain and Ardan, “that there would be no highly patriotic, conscientious, and perpetually-nosy gentlemen in black attire among the workers.”
The Prime Minister merely spread his hands out.
“But I didn’t come here to trade barbs, Your Excellency,” the ambassador, turning his hand over, began toying with a ring on his index finger with his thumb. “Quite recently, I was invited as an honored guest to a session of the Grand Magister Lodge of the Imperial Guild of Sciences.”
“Ah, yes... I trust that our gray and very wise heads did not unduly burden your day, ambassador.”
“Not in the least. I found it most fascinating. Especially since Senior Magister Borskov was presenting a paper… before dashing off on what I assume is yet another legendary expedition.”
“Possibly... Do you mind?” The Prime Minister slightly raised his pipe and, after receiving the foreign ambassador’s silent approval, drew on it. “If memory serves, he is a Star Archaeologist?”
“Precisely, Your Excellency.” The Kargaamian made a peculiar hand gesture, which was apparently a nod equivalent. “And as of this year, he’s the head of the Archaeology Department of your Mages’ Guild.”
“Right, right, I remember that.”
For some reason, Ardi had no doubt that General Zakrovsky didn’t merely “remember” things, but knew them with absolute certainty. It was unlikely that a man such as the Duke-General overlooked anything at all.
For a time, silence filled the office, after which the ambassador sighed and made the hand gesture again. His head had barely moved during the conversation thus far. Perhaps this was some peculiarity of Kargaam gesticulation—Ardan didn’t really know enough to guess.
“I’ve always admired your way of doing business, Your Excellency,” Mr. Tsotscodts said, somewhat drily. “It is far more subtle and refined than your predecessor’s. Somewhat reminiscent of a dagger, even... but! Alas. The Congress’ schedule and all its meetings have been arranged as though we have nearly ninety-six hours in a day, not merely twenty-four. So I would be grateful to you, like a friend, if we could set aside our customary fencing with diplomatic feints for a moment.”
The Prime Minister drew on his pipe again and... smiled like a fox that was pleased that plump, tasty prey had come to his burrow of its own accord.
“Of course, my friend. What do you wish to propose to the Crown?”
“We? Propose? As far as I know, foreign Mages’ Guilds require permission for their research expeditions.”
Ardan was glad that his face was hidden by his mask because the way he was furrowing his brow in bewilderment would not have looked very dignified.
“And it... forgive me—they have already been obtained from the International Community of Star Mages,” the Prime Minister nodded. “The papers have been signed by all the countries of the eastern continent.”
“Fortunately, in our Kingdom, as in many others, national rules take precedence over international ones, so we can easily revoke the permission to crawl about our mountains.”
“You can,” the Prime Minister stated calmly. “But, my dear friend, why would you want to make our lives difficult? In response, we could simply raise the export prices on Ertalain. What would happen to your production lines then?”
“We would immediately begin purchasing Ertalain from the desert people or the Selkadians.”
“You could do that,” General Zakrovsky mused. “Only their product is half as good, the purity range of their ore is four times narrower, and it costs three times as much.”
Silence settled over the conversation once more, after which the ambassador sighed.
“The Empire and its eternal blackmailing of all and sundry with Ertalain…”
“Let’s not play the victim, my dear friend,” General Zakrovsky exhaled a puff of smoke that instantly vanished into the ventilation grille. “We all have our levers of pressure. It’s just that some are a bit longer and heavier. You attempted to influence my decision by obstructing the formation of—and I have to emphasize this—an international research expedition. I then merely reminded you of our very profitable economic cooperation in the Ertalain sphere.”
The Empire did indeed possess close to a third of the world’s entire Ertalain supply. And approximately seven-tenths of its projected deposits. In other words, it practically had a monopoly on the export of that critically-important material.
That was why, during the Mercenaries War, the Castilians and Selkado had so actively supported Taia, while the Tazidahians had bolstered the Principality of Fatia. And perhaps some on the eastern continent would have liked to see their fleets get closer to the Empire’s shores, but the island union had stood in their way.
Such was the tangled web of politics, and Ardi had no intention of sorting it out.
“We all understand, my dear friend Oleg, precisely why this research expedition is being formed,” the Kargaamian ambassador made his strange hand gesture again. “If the Congress fails, the Empire will try to negotiate for non-interference.”
The Prime Minister’s expression didn’t change in the slightest; he merely scratched his cheek with the mouthpiece of his pipe.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Kalih. As far as I know, our Mages’ Guild, together with its foreign colleagues, building upon the research of Senior Magister Mart Borskov, is preparing an international expedition through the mountain ranges of the eastern and northern continents in an attempt to discover dragons. A pointless waste of funding, in my opinion, but since His Imperial Majesty and his foreign partners wholeheartedly support it, then why not-”
“Because everyone understands that this will be the last chance to negotiate.”
“Negotiate about what, my dear friend? About dragons? One would first have to find them—if there are even any left in our sinful world.”
The ambassador briefly closed his eyes and said curtly:
“Your Excellency, we need to agree that we will not interfere in each other’s affairs if the Tazidahians cross their southern borders, and Urdavan and Grainia cross their eastern ones.”
Ardan suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He wanted to sit down like the old shaman had. And the Prime Minister’s answering silence made it no better.
The air now smelled of Shamtur gunpowder. Or perhaps it was merely his imagination running wild.
“You may think, ambassador, that we are assembling an international delegation to avert a catastrophe of global proportions and inviting all the interested parties to join, but... honestly,” General Zakrovsky merely spread his hands out, “this is simply a scientific expedition that’s going to search for ancient creatures that, as the Grand Magister Lodge has stated, could advance our understanding not only of Star Magic, but of the very laws of the universe. Or something to that effect. I confess I’m not terribly well-versed in scientific terminology.”
The ambassador opened his mouth, then immediately closed it and shook his hand. Apparently, the Kargaamians really did use hand gestures instead of head movements.
“All interested parties? So, all that is required of us is...”
The ambassador paused meaningfully.
“The expedition will be prepared over the following three years,” the Prime Minister’s smile grew a touch wider. “And, given all the possible difficulties and schedule shifts, it’ll more likely be four. In midsummer, our Mages’ Guild will send letters to all the countries of the eastern and northern continents with an invitation to participate. It will suffice to express your willingness, provide a group of scientists, and make a financial contribution. That, essentially, is all there is to it. But I hasten to warn you—the contribution won’t be small. The expedition will last nearly a year. Perhaps longer.”
“Then why so much...” The ambassador traced his fingers through the air as though playing an instrument with a keyboard, “…complexity in your behavior?”
“Well, how else would I have learned that Kargaam is so unwilling to damage its relations with the Empire that it’s prepared to approach the Crown directly with an offer to participate?”
“In a scientific expedition?”
“In a scientific expedition,” General Zakrovsky confirmed.
For a time, silence reigned in the office once more, after which the ambassador and his companion rose, ran their hands across their faces, and departed. The Prime Minister continued smoking his pipe.
“And there’s the first win of the Congress, my dear Beaver,” he said softly. “What’s next?”
*
“And this is my youngest,” Vole laid another photograph on the table. In the somewhat blurry and spotted-in-places photo, a boy of about five was playing with a wooden horse on wheels. “Petro.”
“Why not Petr instead?” Alexander asked while pouring himself another cup of strong tea.
According to what Ardan knew about the taciturn operative covered in Armondian tattoos, the only thing that could make Alexander talk was children. He himself was the father of five daughters. Milar’s son was even infatuated with one of them.
The captain, incidentally, was sitting on a settee and, with his mask pulled over his face, was snoring. And Din Arnson, who was pretending to read a book, was in fact admiring a photograph of his wife Plamena. She was possibly the most beautiful mortal ever dreamed up by the Sleeping Spirits.
Ardi recalled how he’d initially feared that Din had been ensnared by one of the Summer Sidhe.
“The wife wanted it that way,” Vole shrugged. Beneath his mask, he’d turned out to be a man of about thirty-five with some gray at his temples and a comical, very scraggly mustache. It was like a rickety fence, only made up of thin little hairs. “Apparently, it sounds unusual. And softer than just plain Petr.”
Alexander and Vole exchanged glances and sighed in unison. Perhaps this was the kind of sigh only the fathers of children could let out, because Ardi had sometimes seen Milar do something similar.
Sleeping Spirits! Ardan sometimes forgot that he was often the youngest among all the investigators and operatives.
“Still, it’s better than freezing our backsides off out there,” Vole, whose real name Ardan still didn’t know, nodded toward the window.
Beyond the frost-rimed glass, Winter was continuing its regal procession along the embankments of the Metropolis. It was blanketing the city in a zealous blizzard, the kind that sometimes hid your own outstretched hand from you. The snowfall had intensified so much that the Army was being deployed in the city. And they weren’t just there to deal with the looters, which were quite numerous in the Tend and Tendari, but to assist the street sweepers as well.
Thousands of people, some in civilian clothes, others in military uniforms, were wielding wooden shovels. They were being aided by Star Mages and even the fire brigades, but not even this could stem the onslaught of the elements.
“I think the last snow that got as bad as this happened when I was very small,” Vole whistled and, gathering the cards into a deck, began to shuffle it thoroughly.
For three hours now, they’d been playing Sevens while waiting for their turn to patrol the hotel corridors. Ardi had even managed a nap. Just like the day before. And the day before that.
It was already the third day of his search. And the third day where Ardan was being forced to make due with just naps. In the evenings, he was at the Crown with Milar, Din and Alexander, prowling the corridors, utility rooms, and every place where their presence would not raise unnecessary questions.
Then, after returning before dawn to the Prime Minister’s residence, Ardan would manage a quick shower, exchange one set of state-issued clothing for another, and, in the company of someone from the security detail, head for Parliament. There, with some rare exceptions, he would just stand around like a statue while thanking the Sleeping Spirits for his Matabar blood and the fact that his legs weren’t falling off from hours of standing ramrod straight.
Meanwhile, Captain Ponskih could use a settee all he liked, to say nothing of the Prime Minister, who spent most of his time seated behind his desk while immersed in his routine paperwork. He would review and sign dozens of documents every day. Occasionally, he might summon some official through his secretaries for a conversation as well. Overall, the man had personally gone down to visit the departments of the ministries under his purview only a few times.
And in the evenings, Ardi would find himself at the Crown Hotel once more. He’d wind up in a small utility room that normally served as a break room for the staff—the maids, doormen and maintenance workers. There were eight such rooms on the ground floor in total. And Black House operatives were currently stationed in six of them.
“Actually- ”
Vole’s monologue, which had not stopped for the past hour, was interrupted by a knock at the door. Milar, leaping up from the sofa, caught his mask as it flew off, fastened it to his face again, and waved Ardi over.
“Let’s go stretch our legs, Magister.” Judging by his tone, the captain was ready to sing hymns of praise to their colleagues who’d come to get them for the shift change.
Ardan, in a now-habitual motion, checked the grimoire at his belt and, picking up his staff that had been propped up beside him, pulled the leather Donkey mask back over his face. It was, of course, somewhat hot to wear indoors, but it wasn’t like he could complain to someone about it.
“Oh, and we’ve decided to try sending our daughter to a school for young ladies of good breeding,” Vole and Alexander’s conversation lingered behind them.
“Not the best idea,” Alexander rumbled. “We sent our eldest to one, and in the end, we had to pull her out.”
“She didn’t get along with the other girls?”
“No, the teachers were actually the issue.”
Why was Ardan not the least bit surprised to hear that Alexander Ursky’s eldest daughter hadn’t gotten along with the teachers? Recalling the tall young woman with the steely gaze whom Ardan sometimes saw at Milar’s dinner parties, he realized that her character was most likely entirely inherited from her father.
“It’s your shift,” Marmot said after greeting them, and was gone.
Most of the Cloaks, like the Daggers, were none too pleased about the Congress and about being pulled from their regular duties, investigations and cases. After all, the rest of the world wasn’t obligingly standing like a docile stallion in its stall, waiting for the grand gathering of politicians to conclude.
“Honestly, Ard, I was just about to ask you to put a spell on our new acquaintance,” Milar grumbled. “If not for Alexander and his love of children, I’d have managed one myself.”
“How, exactly?”
Milar simply moved the fold of his cloak, revealing a saber hilt.
“It’s a wonderful spell known as ‘loss of consciousness resulting from severe blunt force trauma,’” Captain Pnev explained in a deadpan.
They passed through the wall. Quite literally. Milar pulled on one of the lamps, a barely-noticeable seam in the wallpaper widened, and after that, a thin door panel slid out.
The hotel had been designed so that the staff could avoid disturbing the guests and didn’t need to use the regular elevators and staircases. Instead, hidden behind such false walls for them to use, the Crown was honeycombed with an entire secret labyrinth. And it was precisely this labyrinth—the various passageways, utility rooms, the laundry room, the kitchen, several service elevators, and other spaces—that the Black House was patrolling.
The corridors, along with the rooms themselves, were being guarded by the diplomatic missions’ own security, so there was no need to bother them unnecessarily.
Stopping near a table, Milar produced a map from inside his coat and, after unfolding it, pushed the table closer to the light.
“We’ve searched the second kitchen with you,” the captain traced his finger across the blueprint, marking the hotel’s zones that had been checked with red exes. “All the elevators, too, including the service and main ones. We did the corridors of the first and second floors. As well as all the storage rooms for the cleaning supplies, bed linens, and spare breakable utensils. Nothing. Anywhere.”
“We need to get to the roof, Milar,” Ardan repeated for the umpteenth time. “The traitor mutant didn’t have time to hide the documents very thoroughly. And leaving them anywhere inside the hotel, where other Tazidahians, the Black House, and the Puppeteers are all present would’ve been extremely risky.”
“I know, Ard, I know,” the captain sighed and, rolling up the map, tucked it back inside his coat. “I just… don’t like your plan all that much.”
“We don’t have a choice anyway,” Ardan insisted. “Without examining the roof-”
“It’s already been examined, Ard.”
“But not by me.”
“What, after just a year of service, you’re now a genius investigator?”
“No, Milar, but I’m still a Speaker, and you simply don’t want to admit that we have no other viable ideas at the moment.”
Captain Pnev lifted his mask and demonstratively slapped his palm against his face, then returned it to its rightful place.
“Just tell me why, by the Eternal Angels, the Face of Light, the Saints, the Holy Martyrs, and pudding-”
“What does pudding have to do with it?” Ardan asked, baffled.
“My brain is going to turn into pudding if I keep spending time with you,” Milar snapped. “So here’s the thing, Magister—why do all your plans, in one way or another, come down to you destroying Crown property?! And also windows for some reason. But here, credit where it’s due, you’ve somehow managed to combine both of your ruinous, destructive habits!”
“It sounds rather good to me,” Ardan drawled, recalling the details of the proposal he had laid out the day before. “We break a window, I invite Winter into the corridor, and within minutes, even the hardiest will retreat to their rooms. Then, while the repairman makes his way through the iced-over doors, and while he patches it all up… We’ll have enough time to search everything and slip away unnoticed.”
“And the stationary shield doesn’t concern you?” Milar hissed. “Or the damage to the Empire’s reputation! A window at the Crown Hotel breaking and the resulting scandal?”
“It won’t be able to handle a fragment of the Name of an Elder Element,” Ardan shrugged. “It let it through last time as well. And what reputation damage—there’s a snow apocalypse outside!”
“You can explain that bit to the Colonel yourself!” The captain threw up his hands, offered Ardi an obscene gesture, and headed for the stairs. As he went, he muttered unintelligibly under his breath:
“Goddamn windows... Goddamn Speakers... I curse the day I requested a mage for my unit from the Colonel... I’ve got a miniature Mshisty on my hands now!”